


the spleen of monte carlo (and how to deal with it)

by altissimozucca



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Racing, Character Development, Ex-racer!Max, M/M, Original characters used for Max's character development, Waiter!Charles, mentions of domestic violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:57:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22243702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/altissimozucca/pseuds/altissimozucca
Summary: After witnessing an array of toxic and failing relationships throughout his life, Max was perfectly content with being alone.Until he wasn't.
Relationships: Charles Leclerc/Max Verstappen
Comments: 13
Kudos: 102





	the spleen of monte carlo (and how to deal with it)

**Author's Note:**

> this has been on my mind for the past few days, a true monster that has been blocking me from writing anything else. in this AU, max is an ex-racer who lives in monaco and charles is a waiter at his aunt maud's coffee shop and an only child. camille, jean and maud are my own original character. I began writing this as an exercise for my descriptive writing and I've given myself the challenge of proper character development; in the end, this ended up as a monster of a fic (for my standards) and I like it enough to post it. 
> 
> enjoy reading this mess!

** He walked slowly**, feet dragging beneath him heavier than they’ve ever felt. With every crunch the soles of his trainers made as they crumpled the drying, autumn leaves, Max tightened and untightened his fist, clipped fingernails digging into the skin of his palms. The first droplet of rain fell upon his cheek and he wiped it away hastily, glaring at the grey clouds looming over Monte Carlo.

The Dutchman wasn’t sure where it was that he was going; he just needed to get away, run away from the constant arguments from across the hallway and from his own flat as empty as his heart. Sometimes, he worried that he lacked emotion, but then something would happen, and he’d realize it was the exact opposite.

Maybe that’s why he shot Camille a small smile whenever he saw her in the hall, sometimes followed by a gratuitous offering of tea or biscuits his sister left when she last visited; the Parisian woman would always smile back, refusing politely and they’d go back to doing their own thing.

Max knew Camille declined his offers because of her fiancé, aware that the man was prone to making mountains out of molehills as the walls in the building were very thin and both French speakers were very loud. He wasn’t fluent in the language but understood enough to know Jean was prone to jealousy, didn’t believe the younger woman when she denied his accusations and had some serious anger management issues.

He wanted to call the police on them many times, but then he’d think, “It’s not my problem,” and let it be; the next time he’d see the couple, Jean would be holding his arm around Camille protectively and she would be gazing at him lovingly, keeping her most recent designer purse close.

It all made Max want to throw up, if he was being honest; he preferred being alone to being with someone because of materialistic things, keeping prone to one-night stands rather than inevitable mistrust that came with long-term relationships.

They all proved to be a lie, anyway.

Max, stuck in his own head, didn’t even notice the street around him got crowded until somebody crashed into him, toppling them both to the concrete street; the man on the ground threw some French profanities at him, Max apologized in English and they went their own ways, the Dutchman discreetly flipping him the bird once the man turned his back to him.

The Dutchman took a left corner, entering one of the less busy parts of the bustling city. There was a place in one of the connecting, one-way streets he discovered soon after moving to Monaco, with peaceful atmosphere and surprisingly under-priced coffee; it seemed to be a favourite of the locals and Max enjoyed going there, too.

The bell over the door chimed softly as he entered, the elderly waitress behind the counter smiling at him. “The usual?” Maud asked, typing away on the register without waiting for him to reply. He nodded nonetheless, thanking her as he took his usual spot in the far corner.

_Bon Endroit_ was Max’s safe haven in the city, the one place he felt like he belonged since he first visited. After a while, Maud became a sort-of friend to Max, as much as a fifty-seven-year-old lady could be to a twenty-two-year-old; she gave him advice on life and he listened to her gossip about other women her age he head no intentions of ever meeting, she’d mention a grandchild or some other relative of one of the ladies and he’d roll his eyes, bidding goodbye and leaving a hefty tip beneath his mug.

It was a comfortable routine. Max didn’t think that his only real friend in Monaco would be thirty years older than him, but he didn’t mind. He liked Maud and Maud put up with him and his never-ending moodswings, all-around pessimism and oftentimes dark and self-deprecating sense of humour.

Soon after he sat down, Maud joined him at the table, placing the steaming cup of coffee and a chocolate muffin in front of him. She put her chin in her hands as she looked at him, asking him about his day. He answered her questions, slowly sipping the coffee and breaking off pieces of the pastry, offering some to the woman.

“You know I can’t, _petit,”_ she clicked her tongue, shaking her head as she pushed a loose strand of greying hair behind her ear, “I’ve got diabetes.” Max shrugged, putting the piece in his mouth. “How’s your _maman?”_ she asked, tapping her fingers against the wooden surface.

“She’s been sick recently, but she’s getting better. Victoria says she’s too stressed,” Max replied, shrugging again; he realized he did that often and slumped slightly, engulfing the steaming mug with his hands to soothe his nerves. “My dad contacted her a few days ago, said he wanted all of us to meet again,” he grimaced at the thought.

“Do you want that?” Maud questioned, removing his fingers from the hot piece of ceramic; she narrowed her eyes at him in a scolding manner as she touched it and felt the heat, causing him to look away.

“I don’t know what I want, to be honest,” Max let out a sigh, closing his eyes before opening them to meet a pair of warm green ones. “Let’s talk about something else,” he offered. “How are you?”

“Oh, you know. Same old, same old. I’ve been thinking about painting this place orange, but I’m not sure. Charles doesn’t like it, says it would look better red.” Max blinked at her, trying to remember if she ever mentioned this Charles person before. At his look of confusion, she chuckled, “My nephew. He works here now, helps me out. It’s always appreciated.”

“That’s nice,” Max responded awkwardly, discreetly looking around the place in search of a new face. It wasn’t hard to find him, fiddling with a notepad in his hand as he sat behind the counter, the tip of his pen pressed against his bottom lip; the first thought that came to Max’s mind was – to his own surprise – _cute._

Charles – if that even was Charles – seemed to be in a world of his own, flicking through the notepad and scribbling things down every-so-often while leaning back in a chair that most definitely wasn’t made for that. Max watched as he ran his hand through his hair, the strand falling onto his forehead annoying him; he muttered something to himself, forcing the bit of hair back into its place.

Maud looked between her nephew and the young Dutchman sitting across from her before shouting Charles’ name loudly, causing the brunet to jump in his place, losing his balance on the chair he had been leaning on and topple to the ground, to the amusement of his aunt and the handful of other visitors. He stood up with a light, mocking bow directed at his audience, brushing the back of his trousers with his hands.

He looked sheepish as he approached them, rubbing his elbow where he hit it against the floor. He said something to Maud in French, causing her to click her tongue at him; Max could pick up some words he learnt in the few years he’d been living on the Azure Coast, but the majority of the conversation remained blank.

“Charles, this is Max,” Maud introduced the two of them, the darker-haired man – _could he even be called a man with such a babyface? _– smiling at the Dutchman and greeting him with a small wave. “Max, this is Charles. My favourite nephew.”

“I’m your only nephew,” Charles pointed out. The first thing Max noticed was the thick accent that must’ve been great for picking people up; they all always fell for the whole Mediterranean charm, accented words and killer jawlines. The second thing he noticed were the dimples appearing on his cheeks as he smiled at his aunt’s scrutinizing look.

Max held in a snort as Maud lightly smacked the back of Charles’ head, muttering something to herself before speaking louder, “That’s _why_ you’re my favourite.”

They continued talking for a while, sometimes brining Max into the conversation too. He didn’t mind simply listening, grateful for the the opportunity to settle his own running thoughts; as much as he enjoyed his conversations with Maud, he could listen about what Stephanie was doing for a certain amount of time.

Hell, he’d even forgotten which one of the ladies was Stephanie; _was she one whose husband was a meth addict, the one whose son crashed her new Porsche into the tree or the one who had a myriad of grandchildren at forty-five?_

Max could feel Charles’ gaze settled on him for most of the time, and when he met the Monègasque’s gaze, it didn’t falter. Instead, Charles quirked his lips up in a flirty manner that had Max looking at him confusedly. He wasn’t sure when was the last time someone tried flirting with him nor was he sure how he felt about that.

Charles just winked without an explanation, leaving Max both curious and intrigued.

When Max found himself entering his building sometime later, he almost crashed into Jean. He greeted the Frenchman with a nod of his head, earning one in response along with an invite for some beer one of the upcoming days. Max shrugged his shoulders, saying, “If I catch time, sure,” even though he knew he wouldn’t even contemplate going.

He walked up the stairs instead of using the lift. The staircase was abandoned, cold and there was an odd smell on the first two floors, but Max preferred it to the _metal death trap_; he almost kicked over a leftover can of cider that probably had four or five cigarettes and a wide variety of insects occupying it rather than the drink itself.

Making a mental note to check in with the landlord later, Max pushed open the door leading into the hallway of his floor. Mentally sighing when he saw Camille sitting in the hallway, furiously typing away on her phone with a frown on her lips and dried mascara on her cheeks, the Dutchman stepped over her outstretched legs that she wasn’t bothered to move and unlocked his door, letting it shut behind him and drown out the whiny French coming from the other side.

For the next few days, Max found himself visiting _Bon Endroit_ daily; Maud would look at him in surprise every time he entered, and Charles would grin, waving at the Dutchman while clutching his notepad. He’d sit in the corner and Maud would bring him his order, sitting across from him and embarking in her usual, friendly chatter.

He didn’t speak to Charles a lot, though he noticed the Monègasque looking at him; it wasn’t that he was subtle about it either, winking at Max every time their gazes met. Max found himself observing Charles in a more discreet manner, learning that Charles fiddled with things often, didn’t look any of the customers in the eyes and had to bite his lip to prevent himself from smiling ninety-five percent of the time.

Max also met Maud’s curious, meddling eyes a few times, followed by a, “Don’t even try it,” from the Dutchman as he deciphered the look on her face. She usually rolled her eyes but nodded, though the light smirk never dwindled.

When Max walked into the shop for the fifth day in a row, Maud was nowhere to be seen; he frowned, walking up to the counter where he saw Charles talking to the other waitress, a spunky redhead named Irene with electric blue eyes who recommended Max tiramisu every time he ordered off of her.

Charles greeted him once he’d seen him, focusing his attention on the Dutchman. “How may I help you?” he drawled out, tapping his fingers against the cold surface of the counter anxiously; he was looking at Max but straight _through_ him at the same time, too and Max added conversational anxiety to the list of things he’d learnt about Charles through observing.

“Where’s Maud?” Max casually asked once he told Charles his order, watching the Monègasque as he typed away into the register. His eyes were narrowed in concentration and he seemed to be taking far longer than necessary, pressing the keys one by one agonisingly slowly.

“She’s running some errands, so I’m the one keeping you company today,” he replied, eyes still fixated on the screen even after he handed Max his receipt. _Oh,_ Max thought, knowing that this was part of some sort of bigger scheme planned by the lady.

“You don’t have to,” Max offered, seeing relief wash over Charles’ face. “I won’t die if I sit by myself, so tell your aunt not to worry about me.” He waved the Monègasque off, shooting him a small smile - that probably resembled a grimace more - before sitting on his usual seat.

He observed Charles as he worked, somehow turning coffee making into a fascinating scene. Max could see him tapping a rhythm on the machine as he waited for the mug to fill up, whistling as he heated some milk and scrunching his eyebrows and nose in concentration as he poured it over the espresso.

Even though Max said he’d manage by himself – honestly, it was funny how socially inept Maud thought he was, as though he never talked to anyone – Charles sat opposite Max after handing him his order, looking at the table instead of the Dutchman. Max guessed Charles would feel bad if Maud found out, so he made a mental note to talk to the woman about his social abilities.

Charles brought a mug for himself too, but instead of the lighter, creamy colour Max’s coffee was, Charles’ was darker. Max couldn’t help but gag inside as the Monègasque put what looked like a kilogram of sugar into it; Charles looked at him funnily, making Max realise he’d made some sort of noise at the monstrosity that was Charles’ coffee.

“Just because you’re bitter, doesn’t mean everyone is,” Charles remarked, stirring the drink lightly. His words weren’t condemnatory, but teasing, accompanied by the tiniest of smirks playing on the Monègasque’s lips; Max noticed he still wasn’t looking at him, instead focused on the inside of his mug.

“I’m not bitter,” Max replied bitterly, evoking a chuckle from Charles. “If I were bitter, I wouldn’t ask for coffee with milk. Or a muffin. Muffins are sweet.” He inwardly cringed at the words he’d spoken, but Charles just shook his head amusedly, sipping on his drink.

“So, what you’re saying is, you’re _sweet?_” Charles laughed lightly, the dimples on his cheeks showing. If Max were anyone else, he’d be blushing at Charles’ tone of voice, but since he was Max, he just looked at Charles blankly; the Monègasque ended up being one with rosy cheeks, to Max’s amusement.

“I’m bland,” Max deadpanned, picking off a piece of the muffin and putting it in his mouth. “Some would say angry, others moody, but I don’t think I’m either of those. I’m the perfect middle between everything,” he explained further, receiving a curious look from Charles.

“Doesn’t that get boring though?” Charles questioned, his voice full of intrigue rather than condescending, “Just sort of being there, without anything bringing you real joy? Do you even feel alive?”

Max met Charles’ eyes, thousands of thoughts running through his head. He didn’t like the fact that Charles seemed to be analysing him, trying to figure him out as if he was some sort of a mathematical equation. In the end, he opted for throwing the question back at the man sitting in front of him, “Do you?”

Charles didn’t reply; he leant back in his seat, taking a sip of his coffee. Max offered him a piece of the muffin and he accepted, stuffing it into his mouth before finally finding words, “I do. In the past few years I’ve felt many different emotions, ranging from good to bad to worse and they’re a reminder that I’m still here and that I’ve got to do something to make my time worthwhile.”

He didn’t elaborate any further, and Max didn’t ask him to; if Charles wanted to say something more, Max had a feeling he’d say it. The Dutchman looked away from the Monègasque, awkwardly staring out of the window onto the crowded street.

Charles took out his notepad and began scribbling in it once he realised his company wasn’t going to prolong the conversation; the movement caught Max’s attention and he tried to discreetly crane his neck to see what the man was writing but failed. He gave up soon after, not wanting to become obvious in his attempts and turned his attention back outside.

Something caught his eyes and he frowned as the familiar face of his neighbour; Jean, in all of his _six-foot, clean-shaven, branded clothes_ glory walked down the street with his arm around a brunette. Max knew he wasn’t the best at remembering features, but last he’d seen Camille, the Parisian woman had platinum-blonde hair three lengths shorter than the brunette Jean was walking with.

Disgust churned in the pit of Max’s stomach at the sight and he clenched his fist, having to look away as the two locked lips in the middle of the street. The Dutchman felt bad for Camille, but, then again, she could’ve gotten rid of him ages ago so his sympathy slightly dwindled; had she thrown him out the first time he’d caused an issue, she’d be living a happier life and Max would have more sleep-filled nights.

“What’s got you frowning?” Max was broken out of his thoughts by Charles, who placed the notepad on the table and was looking at Max worriedly, taking notice of the change in his features. He followed Max’s gaze and his lips formed the letter ‘o’ as his eyes met with the still-kissing couple, “I hate PDA so much.”

Max shrugged, putting the last of his muffin in his mouth. “It’s not the _what_ as much as the _who_,” he replied, earning a hum from Charles.

“Is it an ex-girlfriend? Long-term crush? Best friend’s boyfriend that you’ll have to beat to a pulp in an alleyway?” Charles pressed, earning a tiny smile from Max; he grinned at the achievement, not having seen the Dutchman smile because of him yet.

Max’s face returned to its usual seriousness soon after, as he responded to Charles’ question, “A neighbour. He’s engaged and, unless I’ve completely lost my mind, that’s not Camille with him. He’s a piece of shit, honestly.”

“Why is she with him still then?”

Charles look genuinely confused, making Max sigh, “I’m not sure. I don’t talk to them much, except for some words here and there. She’s actually really nice but so naïve you’d think she has less than one braincell.”

“Are you going to tell her?” the Monègasque asked, looking outside of the window then back at Max, who shook his head. Charles frowned, “You should. Tell her, I mean. She probably needs somebody to talk to, if he’s such a dickhead. How would you feel if you were lost and nobody helped you on your way?”

“I don’t want to drag myself into unnecessary shit,” Max explained curtly, standing up. He ignored the surprised look Charles shot at him and placed definitely-more-than-enough money on the table, looking straight at the Monègasque. “Piece of advice: don’t get involved with things that aren’t your business. You’re not my psychologist.”

Without waiting for Charles to reply, he left. When he passed Jean on the street, he purposefully bumped into him, but continued on his way before the Frenchman could get a better look at him. On the inside, he was burning; whether it was because of Jean and his fling, or <strike>the guilt of snapping at Charles</strike> the fact that Charles was trying to help him when he didn’t need any help, he didn’t know.

Max was getting tired of everyone thinking he’s an emotionless bastard.

He ignored Camille, who was sitting on the front steps of their building with a cigarette between her lips. She was staring into the sky looking deep in thought anyway and Max didn’t want to get dragged into a conversation about how life was messing her up this time.

As soon as he entered his flat, he kicked off his shoes and plopped down on the bed, the pair of green eyes coated in hurt swimming around in his mind haunting him for the rest of the day.

The following day, Max woke up feeling completely and utterly drained; it wasn’t unusual for him to wake up even tired than before, but most of the time the feeling would pass in the span of an hour. This time, it was different, and Max sat on his couch eating chocolate cereal looking completely miserable hours after waking up.

He’d spent the whole night tossing and turning, guilt eating away at his mind and the words Charles said to him taking their toll on the Dutchman.

_How would you feel if you were lost and nobody helped you on your way?_

It hit far too close to home for Max’s liking. He knew Charles had good intentions, but the weight of the words hit Max like a tonne of bricks, knocking the air out of his lungs and he couldn’t stay after that; he had to get away, he had to get his mind back to its serene state.

Only he didn’t and now he felt bad. A big part of him wanted to spend the rest of the day inside, staring at the ceiling and ignoring everyone and everything; it wasn’t like anyone checked up on him anyway.

His father most certainly didn’t; the man that was the main cause of everything wrong with Max insisted he wanted to fix the shattered relationship with his son and then wouldn’t call for more than three months. Sometimes, Max wasn’t sure if he minded or not.

Victoria sometimes called, but she was too busy managing her clothing line and caring for their mother, so Max didn’t keep the lack of phone calls against her. She’d send him a text more often, some news about the state of their mother or how her boyfriend was doing; she’d invite him down to Hasselt, but Max would always decline. He wasn’t ready to see the empty shell his _mamma _had become.

Max knew he could stay inside the whole day; he didn’t work, the income he’d earnt while he was still racing enough to keep him going for quite some time and he didn’t have any obligations, no hangouts with friends or dates to go to. The only thing he had was his daily dose of social interaction at _Bon Endroit,_ but he wasn’t sure how welcome he was there.

Deciding he had nothing to lose, Max shrugged on his coat and left his flat, making his way down the stairs where he passed by Camille. She shot him a smile and he nodded, continuing on his trek towards the one-way street he spent majority of his days in. The familiar, wooden exterior of the coffee shop gave him a sense of serenity and Max stopped in the middle of the street, just _looking_.

After sensing some odd glances shot his way, he entered the shop. The bell chimed over his head and Max could feel a few pairs of eyes looking his way; he walked towards the counter, where Charles was typing away on the register, not looking at the Dutchman.

Max cleared his throat and Charles moved his gaze towards him, shooting him a relieved and genuine smile, to Max’s surprise. “The usual?” the Monègasque asked, not bothering to wait for Max to reply as he went to the espresso machine to make Max’s usual mug of coffee. “Go and take a seat, I’ll join you in a few,” he added, looking back at Max and seeing him nod.

Head full of confusion, Max sat at his usual table; he picked up the black plate with the word _reserved_ in simple, white lettering and frowned, examining it further. He didn’t hear Charles come until he put Max’s order in front of him, placing his own coffee on the other side.

“_Tatie_ had that made for you. She’s baking in the kitchen, but I can call her to the front if you’d rather talk to her,” the dark-haired man spoke, voice becoming quieter towards the end of the sentence. He wasn’t looking at Max, but at his own fiddling hands.

Max swallowed the gulp formed in his throat, “No, no. I wanted to apologize to you, actually. You were right and I’m sorry for snapping the way I did.”

Charles looked confused, “I actually wanted to apologize to you. I shouldn’t have butted my nose where it doesn’t belong.” He let out a small chuckle, “How about we just move past this?”

“I’d like that, too,” Max replied, smiling at Charles; he felt as if unbearable weight was lifted from his chest. He could feel Charles looking at him intensively, but blushed when Max caught his gaze.

“Uh, sorry,” the Monègasque mumbled. “You have a nice smile,” he continued, blush intensifying as the words left his mouth; Max raised his eyebrow and thanked him, shooting Charles another genuine smile.

They fell into silence, both of them mulling over their thoughts. Max watched as Charles put the whole load of sugar into his coffee, Charles watched as Max carefully picked pieces of the chocolate muffin and ate them one by one slowly and they just _watched_ each other, observing. Max couldn’t help but think how different Charles was once they actually began talking.

In the beginning, the Monègasque seemed like some sort of overly-enthusiastic guy with the affinity for flirting, but the more time Max spent around him – and he had spent a lot during the past week – he’d realised Charles had his moments of bravery even though he was an awkward mess most of the time.

Max had different drawers in his head for different types of people; for example, his sister fell into the category of _sweet_ and his father fell somewhere in the _trash_ category. When he first met Charles, he’d immediately put him in the _handsome_ category, but now he fell into the _<strike>dateable</strike> adorable_ category; even though they were essentially the same, the difference between them was grave in Max’s mind.

Of course, Max would deny crushing on Charles; all of his talk about how he disliked relationships would be meaningless and there was also the factor of Max being _scared_ of relationships. Victoria would often say to him that having a crush and wanting to date were completely different things, but they were the same to Max.

Both of them would bring him unnecessary heartbreak.

Charles’ voice brought him out of his head and Max threw all of the thoughts about _dating_ and the man sitting in front of him into a deep part of his brain he’d come to weeks later at three in the morning.

The Monègasque was looking at him expectantly, making Max aware that he was asked a question. “I’m sorry, could you repeat what you said? I was in a world of my own.” Charles chuckled at Max’s sheepish expression, nodding.

“I asked, what do you like to do in your spare time?”

_Small talk it is,_ Max thought. He let out a sigh, pondering Charles’ question; the first thing that came to his head was driving, but he didn’t do that anymore. “I don’t know. Nothing, really…” he trailed off, “I used to kart a lot when I was younger.”

“You don’t anymore?” Max shook his head at Charles’ question. “It’s a shame. I like karting, too; we could have gone together, but if you’re out of practice it wouldn’t be fair,” the Monègasque added teasingly, sighing dramatically followed up by a tiny laugh. Max couldn’t help but shake his head in amusement.

Max decided to throw the question back at Charles, “What do _you_ like doing?”

“Music. I play the guitar and drums and it’s one of the best things to do when you’re bored. I only play for fun though,” he answered the question and somehow, Max wasn’t all that surprised. “I also like drawing. I’m not very good at it, but I like it a lot.”

_That’s why he’s always fiddling with his hands._

“Do you sing?” Max questioned, leaning his head on his hands. He eyed Charles as he nodded lightly, looking slightly embarrassed. “I’ll have to hear sometime.”

“I’m not really that good,” Charles muttered, trying to wiggle his way out of singing for Max. “I can hold a tune, but I’d rather not, if you get me.”

“Alright, you don’t have to.” Max smiled at Charles, shrugging lightly; Charles smiled back at him, his dimples showing as he ran his hand through his hair. Max picked off some of his muffin, offering it to the Monègasque, who happily accepted it and stuffed it into his mouth.

“Why do you always eat it like that?” Charles questioned, munching on another piece Max had given him; he made a mental note to ask Maud to give him some leftovers after closing.

“It’s a habit,” Max replied. “I always used to share food with my sister when we were younger, and it stuck. I don’t even notice I’m doing it, most of the time; it feels so natural.”

Charles hummed in response, shooting Max a teasing smirk, “It’s kinda weird.”

Max couldn’t help but chuckle, “Yeah, well, I’m giving you some, too, so shut up and be grateful.”

They continued talking for a while, until Maud came to the front to greet Max and shooed Charles back to work, as Irene had to leave early and her shift still hadn’t arrived; the woman kept glancing from her nephew to Max and vice versa and, from the time he’d spent around her, Max had a feeling she was up to something.

If he was being honest, Maud was always up to something.

After getting fed one more muffin and a first gossip-session of the week, Max was finally able to leave. Charles greeted him on his way out, placing a crumpled piece of paper in Max’s hand as he was passing by. He’d seen later that it was Charles’ phone number scribbled in a neat handwriting so unlike Max’s own chicken scratch, along with the words _text me sometime so we can go karting._

As per usual, Max found Camille outside of the building, smoking on the cold, concrete stairs. Charles’ words from the day before swam around his head as he sat down next to her, earning a look of surprise from the platinum-haired woman; she greeted him and offered him a cigarette, which he declined.

“How are you?” he asked, cringing at his lame attempt at small talk; he had a feeling he’d had enough of it for a lifetime after today.

Camille shrugged emotionlessly, “Been better. You?”

“Good, good,” Max replied, looking at the street in front of him instead of the woman. They fell into silence, air around them bordering on awkwardness even though they’ve known each other for more than four years, ever since Max moved to Monaco back when he had just turned eighteen.

She sighed, breaking the silence, “I just don’t get it. How am I supposed to spend the rest of my life with him when all we do is fight?” Her voice was low and croaky, as if she was on the verge of crying. Max felt bad. “I’m sorry for that, by the way. It’s a wonder you haven’t filed a complaint yet,” she added, chuckling humourlessly.

Taking another drag of her cigarette, she continued, “I love him so fucking much but all he seems to do is hurt me and then tries to apologise with expensive gifts, as if that’s everything. Maybe sometimes I’d just like to talk to him or feel him hold me, but we haven’t done that in months.”

“Why are you with him still?” Max questioned, trying his best not to sound condescending; he felt uncomfortable, but knew both Charles and Maud would be proud of him for his attempts at listening.

“I don’t know!” Camille cried out, first drops of tears rolling down her cheeks. She threw the remainder of the cigarette onto the ground, stomping on it with her boots before circling her arms around her torso. “I don’t know,” she repeated quietly, words slurred from her sobbing.

Not knowing what else to do, Max placed his hand on her back and began rubbing circles soothingly, like he used to do with Victoria when she was crying. It seemed to be working, as Camille’s sobs slowly ceased until she slowly stopped shaking.

She wiped her eyes, mumbling out a thanks. They sat like that for a while, silent, the only sounds around them coming from the rumbling vehicles passing on the nearby road. Max eyed her wearily, afraid she’ll start crying again, and once he was sure she wouldn’t, he spoke up, voice slightly louder than a whisper, but she still heard him perfectly clear.

“I don’t know if you want to hear this, but I’ll still say it: I don’t think you’re good for each other. That might not be the best thing to say, but it’s what I think. He’s bad for you and he’s a bad person, something you don’t deserve. I’ve seen my mum fall apart because of the asshole I call my father and I don’t think anyone should go through something similar. I can hear the things he says to you, I’ve witnessed him cheating on you and I know he’s not going to change. It’d be the best if you just left him, no matter how difficult it seems at the moment.”

Camille said nothing, just continued looking in front of herself. Her face was void of emotion, fingers trembling as she brought her hands together; she looked deep in thought, as if at war with herself. Finally, she spoke, “Thank you, Max.”

It wasn’t what he had been expecting, but at least he knew she wasn’t angry at him. She sounded exhausted, completely drained and Max couldn’t help but pity her. She was still trembling, whether from the cold or the conversation they’d had, Max didn’t know.

He stood up, offering, “Do you want to come in?”

She shook her head in response, declining, “No, but thank you. I think I’m going to stay here for a while. Think some more.”

He nodded, putting his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Don’t stay out too long, it’s freezing.” Camille shrugged dejectedly and Max sighed, taking off his jacket before placing it over her shoulders. She began protesting but he just stepped back, lowly saying, “Goodbye, Camille,” before entering the building.

Max had spent the next few days talking to Charles often. They texted, Max visited _Bon Endroit_ and Max even met Charles’ friend Pierre, with whom he immediately clicked; the three of them had agreed to go ice skating on Saturday, as they agreed it was too cold for karting.

Of course, they had the option for indoor karting, but Charles insisted he hadn’t gone skating _in years,_ somehow persuading the other two, too. Max noticed that Pierre rolled his eyes at Charles’ antics a lot, though all with a fond look on his face.

The heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach felt oddly like jealousy, and Max didn’t like it one bit.

Sometime during the previous days, he’d come to terms with liking Charles. It wasn’t ideal, sure, and all of his relationship-connected theories had lost their meaning, but Max didn’t mind it that much; he wasn’t going to act on it unless Charles acted first, which he doubted because _why_ would sunshine-y Charles ever want to date Max, who was reminiscent of the gloomiest of glooms.

Even Victoria noticed something was up with Max when she called, immediately teasing her older brother as if they were still children; Max hung up at one point, but felt bad and called her again, only to do so again until she changed the subject to something unrelated.

Max found himself talking to Camille, too. She knocked on his door one morning to return the jacket he’d lent her and he invited her in for tea, which she accepted for the first time; the biscuits Victoria left him finally served their purpose and Max found himself enjoying the slightly older woman’s company more than he thought.

They shared some of their interests, and Max found out that she recognised him from his racing days but never said anything as she didn’t want to bother him. She also told him she wanted to break up with Jean but had to find a good-enough moment so it wouldn’t end in a physical fight; apparently, Jean’s jealousy had gotten worse the more time he spent cheating.

On Saturday, Max was lounging in his flat before getting ready for his outing with Charles and Pierre. He was watching a film on Netflix, feet tucked beneath him as his eyes stayed constantly glued to the screen; he could hear shouting coming from the flat on the other side of the hall but tried his best to ignore it.

There was a loud sound of the door slamming and then silence, broken some minutes later by furious knocking on the door of Max’s flat. Pausing the screen, he opened the door only to be met with the sight of his crying neighbour.

Mentally counting to ten, he invited her in, careful to look around in case Jean was nearby; after convincing himself the coast was clear, he shut the door closed and locked it, sitting Camille onto his couch and moving to the kitchen to grab her a glass of water.

She slowly sipped on it, trying to calm her erratic heart and Max observed, noting her trembling hands and lower lip, tearstains running down her cheeks and the red mark on the side of her face; Max had to clench his fist, having a feeling he knew what had happened to the sobbing woman.

It felt like eternity until she calmed down, breathing steadying and waterworks ceasing; she avoided Max’s gaze, focused entirely on the glass clutched between her fingers tightly.

“Do you want to talk about what happened?” he asked carefully, as if speaking to a scared lamb; with how much she was trembling, she could’ve easily passed for one, too. Camille shook her head and Max nodded, “Okay, you don’t have to. Did he see where you went?” Another headshake followed by another nod from Max, even though she wasn’t looking at him.

“He left five minutes ago,” she spoke up, voice hoarse from crying. “I thought I was going to die,” as soon as she finished speaking, another wave of heavy crying hitting her like a tonne of bricks. Max let out a sigh as he circled his arms around her, rubbing her back in an attempt to calm her down.

Max had a feeling his mother would’ve been proud of him had she seen him then.

“I’m so sorry for bothering you,” Camille whispered through her cries, making Max shush her, but to no avail; she continued talking, “I didn’t know who else to talk to. Everybody else is calling me stupid for wanting to break up with him. They keep saying _he’s nice, Camille, he buys you stuff, Camille, I wish I had someone like that, Camille_ but no one cares that he’s a complete jerk and makes me feel like absolute shit.”

“It’s okay,” Max assured her. “You can come to me, I don’t mind.” _I do slightly, but I can’t leave you like that._ “He’s not worthy of your time if he makes you feel so bad. It’s not healthy,” he said.

“He hit me today,” her voice was quiet, and Max barely heard her speak. “I called him out on cheating on me and he said I’ve got no clue what I’m talking about, that I’m a delusional whore with jealousy issues,” she laughed bitterly, spitting the words. “Fucking hypocrite.”

Max continued rubbing circles on her back, “Don’t listen to him.”

His phone began ringing at that moment and he looked at the device, seeing Charles’ name flashing on the screen. Apologising to Camille, he picked up the phone, “Hey, Charles.”

_“Hey, Maxy, so, I’ve got a question,”_ the Monègasque began speaking hurriedly and Max had to tell him to slow down, unable to catch any of the following words. _“Oh, sorry, yes. I said, Pierre said he can’t make it today, so you wouldn’t mind if it was just the two of us going, right?”_

Max could see interest flickering in Camille’s eyes, similar to the look Maud had whenever she looked at him and her nephew. Ignoring her and the heat picking up on his cheeks, he replied to Charles, “No, of course not. What’s up with Pierre?”

_“He caught some bug, nothing serious, but he still doesn’t want to risk it.”_ There was a beat of silence before Charles continued, _“I guess I’ll see you later then. Adieu, bye, bye.”_

Before Max could say goodbye, Charles hung up and Max was left with his mouth wide open, blinking confusedly. He was broken out of his trance by a giggle from Camille, who was looking at him in amusement. “What?” he couldn’t help but ask.

She continued giggling lightly and Max smiled, glad she was feeling better. “Nothing, nothing. I didn’t know you were into guys,” she commented, making Max shrug. Camille smiled at him sadly then, bumping his shoulder lightly. “Is he treating you right?”

“I should be the one asking you that,” Max retorted, evoking a snort from Camille. “Also, we’re not dating,” he added.

“But you want you to be.” It wasn’t a question and Max didn’t reply. She stood up, pulling the Dutchman up to his feet, too and circling her arms around his torso, whispering, “Have fun on your date. And thank you, for everything.” Moving back, she continued, “I’m going to break up with the son of a bitch as soon as I see him, I swear.”

Max patted her arm comfortingly, not bothering to correct her on the fact that Charles and he were most definitely not going on a date. “If you need somewhere to go after, go to _Bon Endroit_ and tell Maud that you’re a friend of mine. She’ll help you with everything you need,” he said, earning a nod from Camille before she left, leaving Max alone in his flat with the thought _Is this a date?_ running in his head.

Later that evening, he found himself walking down the streets of Monte Carlo with Charles by his side, humming some sort of tune that had Max chuckling at the Monègasque. He looked like a kid on Christmas morning when he saw the skating rink, rushing towards the skate-rental stand while pulling Max along.

After renting their skates, the two found themselves on ice; Charles, even though he hadn’t skated in a long time, caught the swing of things quickly, unlike Max, who waddled along the edge of the rink while gripping the railing tightly with his hands. Charles was looking at him amusedly, letting out a snort once Max finally stopped gripping the iron rod and stood on his own feet.

“Come on,” the Monègasque said impatiently, offering his hands to Max. The Dutchman looked at them, then at the encouraging look on Charles’ face and connected his hands to Charles’, letting the Monègasque pull him along slowly.

Once he began catching the drift of things, it became easier and Max found himself laughing as Charles purposefully acted silly, smiling, too. They didn’t stop holding hands the entire time and, at one point, they could hear some teenage girls cooing at them, making them both blush and let go of each other.

Max had only fallen twice in the span of the evening, which he counted as successful. Charles laughed at him both times, helping him up only to have Max pull him down with him. Their faces were inches from each other and Max thought about kissing Charles; he’d seen the Monègasque’s eyes flickering down to Max’s lips, too, giving him the indication he wasn’t the only one with that thought.

Later, the two of them found themselves drinking hot chocolate in Max’s flat. At first, he was self-conscious about it, but when Charles made himself basically at home, all of Max’s anxious thoughts washed away; after all, Max’s flat was closer, and he didn’t share it with his overly nosy family.

The two of them talked for the whole evening, about anything and everything, from Max’s mother and her illness to how he was scared of relationships because of the array of toxicity he’d witnessed in his life, from Charles’ dream of pursuing his music career to how his father’s death brought him closer to Maud, his father’s sister. They were getting to know each other on a level their conversations in the coffee shop didn’t allow them to and once they were (not) ready to part, Max had a feeling as if they were on a date.

He voiced his thoughts to Charles, who smiled at him, the full dimple-showing, eye-crinkles smile that had Max swooning. “I felt like it was a date, too,” the Monègasque replied, taking Max’s hand in his.

“I think I like you,” Max said quietly, earning a chuckle and a raised eyebrow from Charles.

“You think?” Max nodded in response, freezing in his spot once he felt Charles press his lips to his cheek. “I think I like you, too,” he whispered in Max’s ear before moving away, still keeping Max’s hands in his.

“I’m not sure if I’m ready for a relationship,” the Dutchman warned Charles, who shrugged, expression not changing.

“It’s okay, we can take it slow. We don’t have to rush,” Charles replied. Max’s worried expression softened, and he brought their intertwined hands to his lips, kissing them lightly. “And if you decide you’re not ready, that’s okay, too. Sure, it might hurt but I don’t want you to be uncomfortable just for the sake of pleasing me,” Charles added. Max didn’t respond, but he didn’t have to.

He had a feeling they’ll be alright.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr at altisssimozucca](https://altisssimozucca.tumblr.com/)


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